


Miscellaneous TF2 One-shots

by livvylive



Category: Team Fortress 2
Genre: F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-06-21
Updated: 2015-06-22
Packaged: 2018-04-05 12:17:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 6,054
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4179546
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/livvylive/pseuds/livvylive
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>One-shots inspired mostly by Tumblr prompts. SFW.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Beds and Blankets

"C'mon, spook," Sniper called to his French lover. "What are you doing in there? Havin' a wank?" He was sitting a few yards away from his camper van, which was parked in the middle of the desert. Tired of trying to avoid their teammates for a bit of alone time, Sniper and Spy had decided to take a weekend away. Now, the fire was banked, the stars were out, and Sniper was more than a little horny. All that was missing from the picture was Spy, who had gone into the van almost half an hour ago and not returned. Sniper waited a moment, listening for a response, and then tried again. "SPOOK! WHAT YOU DOIN' IN THERE, MATE?"

Now Sniper heard a rustling in the van before a disheveled Spy, dressed in night clothes, appeared at the camper's door. "Why are you shouting _mon cher_? Do you need help with ze fire?"

"No, I got the fire taken care of twenty minutes ago. I've just been waiting for you." Sniper rose to his feet and started towards the van, intent on pulling his lover to the blankets Sniper had laid out on the ground and fucking him senseless.

"Waiting for me?" Spy's eyebrows scrunched together in confusion. " _Pourquoi_?" He made no move to leave the van.

"What do you mean, why? So's we can have a go at it and get some sleep. That's what we came out here for, right?" Sniper stopped just in front of Spy, not understanding why the Frenchman wasn't joining him.

Spy peered past Sniper, seeing for the first time the ratty, grey-brown blankets strewn haphazardly on the ground by the now-cold fire pit. "Are you saying you want to... ' _ave a go at it_ ' in ze dirt?"

Sniper stared at Spy for a moment, then glanced back over his shoulder to make sure the blankets were where he had left them. "'Course not mate, not in the dirt. I put out blankets, see?" He stepped to the left, pointing at the rags in the sand. Spy just stared, upper lip curling slightly in disgust. So Sniper tried again. "Y'see? They're right there."

Spy arched an eyebrow. "Zose are not blankets _cher_. I'm not sure zat zey even count as rags." He leaned against the doorframe. "Now, will you come inside? Unless you 'ave' forgotten, zere is a perfectly useful bed in 'ere."

Sniper glanced at his blankets again and then turned to pout at Spy. "What do you have against my blankets, love? They're just fine."

"Zey are more hole zan fabric. Zey are so disgucting, not even Medic would use zem as bandages."

"Aw, come one Spook. Bloody quack doesn't use bandages at all! The blankets aren't that bad. And the stars are out here. And it's cooler than the van. And-"

Spy cut him off with a snort. "Allow me to put zis more simply, _cher_. I will not be sleeping, much less making love, on a blanket in ze sand. Come inside with me, or stay out 'ere alone." With that he turned and stalked into the van, letting the door slam shut behind him.

Alone now, Sniper stared at the closed door. Then he turned and looked at the blankets. Then he pictured Spy, laying alone in Sniper's bed. He looked at the ratty blankets again.

Sniper threw open the door and went to join his lover.


	2. Freedom Fries Fluff Part One

Spy stormed into the mess hall, fuming and reaching for a cigarette. He was surrounded, no, _besieged_ by imbeciles! First that child, the Scout, refused to stop pestering him about stealing some photos from Spy's Red counterpart. Then he had to cloak and hide in a broom closet while the sociopath doctor tried to hunt him down to run "tests"- what that translated to in the man's diseased mind, Spy did _not_ want to know. He just wanted to get in his Ferrari, drive into town, and not come back.

"COME BACK HERE, PRIVATE!"

He turned wearily. As delightful as his American lover could be, Spy did not want to deal with Soldier right now. " _Oui_?"

"Come with me!" With that, Soldier grabbed Spy by the arm and dragged him to the other end of the mess hall. Spy protested and swore at the broader man in English and French, trying to dig the heels of his artisan hand-tooled leather shoes into the linoleum. Needless to say, the tactic proved less than effective. When they reached got to the table at one end of the room the Soldier yanked Spy off-balance, scooped him up, and deposited him in a chair. "I made you dinner!"

In front of Spy sat a chipped plate covered by an upside-down bowl. What horrors it contained, he could not guess. "Zank you, _mon cher_ , but I was planning on..."

"On having dinner, affirmative?"

"Yes." Spy tried to stand, only to be forced back down.

"Well, I made you dinner." With a flourish, the patriot removed the bowl.

"...Soldier."

"Yes!"

"... what is zis?"

"Zis" was... something. One side of the plate held what looked to be a bagel covered in chocolate syrup. The chocolate was running across the dish to mix with the broken yolk of an egg-over-easy. Dominating the plate, however, was a glistening, brilliant orange, and slightly moldy piece of processed cheese product.

"It's French food! I asked Doc what kind of dishes they ate in France. He said omelettes came from France, but I am ashamed to say I cannot make omelettes. But you have eggs, and they are good. He then reported that he once tried a French dish called pain chocolate, and it was like a chocolate donut. So I made you that."

Spy didn't take his eyes off the plate once while Soldier was talking. He was almost certain the cheese was watching him.

"And... zat?" He poked a hesitant finger in the general direction of the orange mess, afraid to touch it in case it snapped at him.

"Moldy cheese! He said it was supposed to be blue, but the only mold on our cheese was green and white. Then he said it was sharp cheese, but when I tried to sharpen it the cheese fell apart."

Spy tore his gaze away from the cheese, which was now attempting to escape the plate. He looked to Soldier. He looked back to the cheese. Soldier. Cheese. Soldier, straight-backed and full of pride in his accomplishments. Cheese, giving up on escape and attempting to attack the eggs.

 _Merde_.

Reluctantly, Spy picked up his fork. At least he could put the cheese out of its misery.


	3. Freedom Fries Fluff Part Two

Spy lay on his back, desperately wishing for the strength to retrieve his gun and shoot himself. But all he received was yet another wave of nausea, which in turn lead to yet another wave of vomit filling the bucket by his bed.

He laid back down, wiping his mouth with his sleeve. Three days- three days he had been like this, ever since he ate that damn cheese. It had been so moldy, so disgusting that it had developed a life of its own and Soldier had tried to pass it off as bleu cheese and he'd been so proud of himself for doing something nice for Spy that Spy didn't have a heart to not eat the cheese and-

Spy threw up again.

"Spy?"

Spy lifted his head to see a concerned soldier standing at the door to Spy's room, with a covered plate in his hands. With a curse, Spy flopped back on his bed and covered his eyes with one arm.

"Spy? I brought you dinner..." Spy heard the door close softly as Soldier came into the room.

Eyes still covered, Spy ground his teeth. Did his idiotic lover really think he wanted another dinner of runny eggs and sentient cheese? _Really?_

"Spy? I promise its better this time."

The normally-loud man sounded pathetic and apologetic. Spy moved his arm and peeked at Soldier. He covered his eyes again.

A broad-shouldered, war-hardened mercenary should not be capable of looking so much like a kicked puppy.

 _Merde_.

With a sigh, Spy forced himself to a sitting position. "And what did you make _zis_ time, Soldier?"

With a nervous grin Soldier came around the bed to stand beside Spy. He sat the still-covered plate on Spy's lap and removed the lid with a flourish to reveal-

... an omelette wth bleu-cheese crumbles and a chocolate croissant. Mouth hanging open in astonishment, Spy simply looked from the plate to Soldier.

"I talked to Engie instead of the doc this time! He said that just because cheese is moldy doesn't mean it's French, and then he showed me how to make an omelette. And I bought the croissant in town!" Soldier was grinning widely now, and held a fork out to Spy. His grin grew wider still when he heard Spy's stomach rumble.

Spy, still stunned, looked at the fork. Then Soldier. Then the plate. Then the fork again. Without a word, he took the fork and dug in.

_Infirmary Notes, April 16th_

_\- Herr Scout complained of a sprained ankle. Dispensed painkillers._

_-Spoke with Herr Sniper regarding his kidney health._

_-Spoke with Herr Demo regarding his drinking habits. I fear he was too drunk to listen._

_-Herr Spy appears to be suffering from over-indulgence on top of food poisoning. Offer to pump his stomach was rejected. Dispensed medication for nausea._


	4. Back to the Future

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by future!Engie

Dell swore and struggled as he felt himself being dragged back through the garish yellow and pink rip in space time he'd fought so hard to reach. He only needed another moment, another half a moment! He just needed to tell them to leave those crates well enough alone, to warn them what would happen if they fell victim to Gray's plans! Another second-

But he could feel cold robotic fingers digging into his left shoulder and heard the clink of metal on metal as they grabbed his right. Neon swirls across his vision, confused sounds echoed wildly, a moment of feeling like he'd been turned inside out passed, and, he felt himself fade from the waking world.

 

When he came to, he found himself sprawled on the cold cement floor of an empty room. The ceiling above him was gray and dirty, dirty like everything in the world that damn Butternubs had made. For hours, days- no, just minutes- he lay there, waiting for his mind to clear. When at last he felt able to try and assess his situation, he rolled onto his right side and heaved himself up off the ground. Or at least, he tried.

When Dell felt no lift from the arm that should have been there, heard no mechanical whir of gears, he felt his heart skip a beat and snapped his head to the side to look at his robotic arm. His missing robotic arm.

For a few heartbeats, he simply stared at the stump where his arm should have been attached. Then, with a low cry of distress, he curled into a ball on the unforgiving concrete. He felt like he was falling apart, flying apart, and desperately tried to hold himself together.

They'd taken everything. They'd ruined everything. Curling tighter, he felt panic and fear and anger flood through him and mingle into the vast emptiness of a life wasted.

Years. He'd spent years trying to fix the problem he and his teammates had caused when Gray first sent them those damn crates. They hadn't even realized what they'd done at first. They just thought they'd found new hats!

  1. At that, Dell let out a strangled, broken laugh that echoed eerily in the room, and began to tremble. They'd been so concerned with the damned hats. So concerned, they hadn't even seen the shadowy figures behind the hats, behind Gray and his science, behind the fall of RED and BLU and MannCo and the world as they knew it. And by the time they did see, it was too late.



Even Dell, the one with eleven PhDs, the one who prided himself on his mind and ability, had been too late. He'd been as blind as the rest of them.

Eventually Butternubs came into power, and things had started to change. But even then, he'd tried to convince himself that the new laws about guns and commerce and immigration were normal, made sense. When Heavy and Medic had been deported, he'd told himself that they were just innocents caught up in an attempt to protect America from foreign threats. He'd tried the same line when Demo went, and when Spy disappeared. He'd told himself comforting lies.

And then the riots had started.

He couldn't remember what the cause had been. There were so many to choose from- the indefinite state of martial law, the reproductive laws, immigration and deportation. Whatever it was, people were riled up, and calling for help, and the world governments had stepped in. Australia had tried to send aid, help, advice, technology. And it backfired horribly.

There were many things he couldn't remember. But Dell would never forget seeing Sniper, his _friend,_ on the TV screens during the so-called "Australium Trials". And he'd never forget seeing Slim killed that same day, a bullet sent between his eyes, as Butternubs began his crusade to rid America of the "vicious Australian influence". And he'd never forget the President's words, spoken in an eerie computerized voice as Sniper's blood washed over the stage.

 _"You are one of us, or you are against us. You live or you die. There is no third choice._ "

Since that day, Dell had been against them.

For years he'd hidden himself away and planned and plotted. For years he'd come up with and discarded plan after plan to rid the world of Butternubs and his backers. And when he'd found the one scheme that stood a chance, the one plan that could save the world, he'd waited years more. He'd studied and researched- tricky things with books being banned. He'd calculated and tested and theorized. And he'd waited, and watched. To go back in time would require not only perfection of mind and math. It would require perfect equipment and technology. It would require access to the kind of labs only the government maintained. So he'd planned more still. Routes, bribes, schedules, maps, and more. He'd memorized guard rotations and building blueprints. He'd mapped out a thousand contingencies. He'd greased all the right palms, killed all the right people. His plan had been perfect!

But he'd still failed!

Dell was shaking now, tears streaming down his face as he sobbed silently. He'd failed. The portal hadn't been stable, and Butternubs' security bots had detected it and pulled him back through before he could stop his younger self and his now long-dead friends from opening those damn crates.

Those damn crates.

He rolled over onto his back and stared up at the ceiling, bleak despair etched in the lines of his face.

He'd failed. His entire life had been wrapped up in this one plan, this one opportunity to fix what he and his teammates had done all those years ago. He'd sent away his family in the name of keeping them safe. He'd lost his friends, watched them die. He'd killed and stolen and spent thousands of hours on this one plan. This one hope.

And he'd failed.

With a shuddering sigh, Dell closed his eyes.

He hoped they'd kill him the same way they'd killed Sniper- quickly. Easily.

He'd welcome that death with open arms.


	5. Breakfast in Bed

Scout fumbled for the pan in the cupboard as quietly as he could. Which wasn't very.

" _Fuckfuckfuck"_ he whispered, the pan crashing noisily against the other dishes in the cupboard as he tried to extricate it.

Finally winning the fight with the noisy pan-from-hell, he slid it onto a burner on the stove and turned on the heat. Then, he took a step back and glanced around the unfamiliar kitchen, trying to find breakfast ingredients. He opened a few cupboards to try and find _something_ , and cringed as they squealed in the morning quiet. After he finally uncovered salt, pepper, a bowl, and a spatula, he crossed to the high-end fridge and retrieved eggs and milk. After mixing them in the bowl and adding salt and pepper, he dumped them in the hot pan and was delighted to hear the eggs sizzling like they used to when his ma made them.

" _Damn_ I'm good," he muttered. Grabbing the spatula, he started scraping the eggs around the pan to scramble them, making a perfect breakfast to surprise Demo with.

Or, he tried. But when he took the spatula to the eggs, he was dismayed to find that instead of scraping into eggy blobs like when his ma made 'em, bits of egg stayed crusted to the pan while his over-enthusiastic scrambling splashed liquid egg over the pan's edge and on to the stove. " _Shit._ "

As the liquid egg hit the hot burner, a disgusting burnt smell filled the air. To try and stop the burning, Scout reached for the burner dial. In his rush, however, he twisted it to the right instead of the left- turning the heat to high instead of turning it off. Thinking he had averted the crisis, he stepped back to gather is thoughts.

And then the eggs burst into flame.

"FUCK!" Black smoke billowed from the pan, and somewhere a fire alarm started blaring shrilly. Then, Scout heard a bellow start somewhere in the house, rush down the stairs, and take shape in the form of a nightshirt-clad Scotsman brandishing a fire extinguisher. Demoman charged into the kitchen, spraying foam at the flaming stove. His bellow continued until the flames died under the weight of the fire extinguisher's contents. As the last flickers disappeared, Demo turned a bleary eye towards Scout, who stood sheepishly in the corner of the kitchen.

"Lad."

"...yeah?"

"Why was me bloody kitchen on fire?"

"..."

"Lad."

"...yeah?"

"Ye'd best be answerin' me."

Scout looked at his feet and muttered something too soft for Demo to hear. "What was that?"

Scout lifted his head slightly, avoiding the other man's eyes. "I said, I was tryin' ta make you breakfast. As, like, a surprise."

Demoman looked at Scout. Scout looked at the floor. Then suddenly, the older man threw back his head and laughed long and hard. When he finally railed off to hiccupping giggles, and then silence, he realized Scout was looking at him with an expression that was equal parts hurt and anger.  Still grinning, Demo crossed to the Bostonian and took him in his arms. Scout was stiff for a moment, and then relaxed slightly and chuckled a little sheepishly. "I guess I kinda fucked it up."

"Aye lad, that ye did." Demo pressed a kiss to Scout's forehead, and then pulled back to smile at the shorter man. "But in the grand scheme o' things, its nae so bad. And I do appreciate the thought."

Scout smirked, still embarrassed but somewhat mollified. Wrapping his hands around the Scot, he pulled Demo down for a longer kiss. When the broke apart, Demo said, "Tell ye what lad. Let's get this cleaned up and go find some food in town. Unless ye want tae try and cook again...?"

Scout just glared, and Demo laughed.

All in all, it wasn't a bad start to the day.

They'd certainly had worse.


	6. Sword Van Goes to the Beach

"Ye won't make it, lad." Demoman lazed on the sand, shading his good eye with one hand as he watched Sniper's gangly form slowly moving up a steep cliffside in a determined attempt to reach the rope he'd spotted hanging from a tree branch up top. "Even if ye get to the bloody thing, you'll nae make the jump. Rope's too short, water's too far." Sniper, evidently either unable to hear or simply ignoring his the Scot's warnings, simply continued stretching for handholds as he continued to work his way to the top of the cliff.

"Bloody idiot." Abandoning his futile attempts to sway the Australian away from his bull-headed desire to swing from the rope to the lake 'jus' like me an' th' blokes used to do back home', Demo dropped back to the sand with a heavy sigh and threw an arm over his face. "Too hot to be climbing. Bloody idiot." The sun beat mercilessly down on the lakeside, its heat only slightly lessened by patch of shade Demoman had folded himself into. He was sweating like a dog, even in spite of having abandoned his usual attire in favor of a pair of red swimming trunks, and silently cursing Sniper for ever suggesting they leave the air-conditioned base for a trip to the lake. At first it had seemed like a brilliant plan- escape the base, spend some time in the cool water of the lake, enjoy each other's company and knock back a few beers. At first it had seemed like it would be a fine time.

And then they'd stepped out of Sniper's van and into the hundred-degree-plus heat of the day.

Things had gone downhill from there, and after a half-hearted swim they'd ended up guzzling their beers and retreating to the shade. Demo had been about to suggest- or possibly demand- that they abandon their day at the beach altogether when Sniper had spotted the rope hanging from an old oak's branches at the top of a small cliff adjacent to the lake. The moment he'd seen the bloody thing, of course, nothing would do but for the stubborn outdoorsman to climb up to it and try to swing into the lake like he was a gangly, pimple-nosed Australian teenager instead of a gangly, sun-burned Australian mercenary. Demo's protests had gotten him nowhere, and in the end the bomber was left to simply try not to die of heat stroke while his idiot ally risked a trip through respawn for the sake of a jump into a muddy lake. And once the dumb bastard got himself killed, Demo would be left to drive the unruly van back to base, where Sniper would be waiting and bemoaning the fact that someone other than himself got behind the wheel of his precious piece of junk. Maybe he'd scratch the thing, as payback. Not that Sniper could notice a new scratch in the middle of all those dents.

Hearing a sudden loud splash, Demo lifted his arm to squint out at the lake. Sniper hadn't made the jump, had he? It was bloody impossible! The physics of it... Physics be damned, there was Sniper, rising from the water like a vaguely disturbing impersonation of the Birth of Venus. Grinning broadly, he gave Demo a double thumbs-up and quickly dashed back to the base of the cliff to begin climbing again. With a sigh, Demo let his arm fall of his eye once more. "Bloody idiot."

He could tell they were going to be here a while.


	7. Playing Hard to Get

"Hey, Miss P! Miss P!" Miss Pauling turned at the sound of Scout's voice to find the obnoxious Bostonian running down the hall towards her. He skidded to a halt in front of her, slightly out of breath, before straightening and leaning against the wall in a desperate attempt to appear casual. "How's it going, Miss Pauling?"

Pauling sighed inwardly. "It's going fine, Mr. Scout. Can I help you with something?" She turned to face him fully, tapping one foot impatiently.

"Yeah, y'know, you totally can! 'Cuz I had a question for yah. Do you have a Band-aid?" Scout grinned cockily. Pauling stopped her foot-tapping, surprised by the strange question. Then, relieved that her hadn't asked if she wanted him to take his shirt off, or made some other inane attempt at flirting, she started rummaging through her purple leather purse for a bandage.

"I don't think I have one Scout, I'm sorry. You should probably go see Medic." She gave him a small, apologetic smile, and turned to leave.

"Wait!"

Pauling stopped again. " _Yes_ , Scout?" she asked, one eyebrow raised in exasperation.

"Don't you wanna know why I need one?" Scout looked like a kicked puppy, or a little child who's parent's had dismissed his tale of aliens and superheroes fighting in the streets. Pauling was in a rush, but that sad expression tugged at her, and she realized she couldn't leave the Bostonian looking like that.

"Why did you need a Band-aid, Scout?"

The young man's grin returned, blinding and confident. "Because I just scraped my knee falling for you!" He rocked back on his heels, still grinning, and obviously proud of his flirting prowess.

Pauling stared at Scout, not sure if she was supposed to laugh. As silence stretched on, however, and Scout's smile remained, she gradually realized that he was serious. After a moment of inner turmoil regarding the best way to handle the situation, she remembered who she was dealing with. Scout didn't take hints- she'd have to beat him over the head with the truth. "Scout?"

Impossibly, his grin got even wider. "Yeah, Miss P?"

She shook her head. "That was a terrible line." With that, she turned and walked away, leaving Scout to stare open-mouthed after her.

 

Scout sat cross-legged on his bed, pouting slightly as he considered Pauling's rejection. He'd spent a week coming up with the perfect line, and then practiced his delivery in the mirror until he wanted to go out with himself because the line was so fuckin' _perfect_.

And then she'd told him the line was terrible. His pout deepened, and he flopped back on his bed with a sigh. What was her problem?

And what was _his_ problem, for that matter? Back home, all of the girl's would've been throwing themselves at him if he used that line. Well, maybe some of the girls. Certainly at least one girl, anyway. Maybe. On a good day.

Well _fuck_. He didn't know how to flirt, and that was that. Which meant he'd have to learn. But how the hell did you learn something like that?

He couldn't ask his teammates, that was for fucking sure. Heavy and Medic were all faggy together, so they wouldn't know anything about chicks. Sniper was a weird fucker who lived in a van and pissed in jars. Spy was creepy, and he was probably a fag too, and Pyro just mumbled a lot. Demo was always too shit-faced to be useful. Ditto Soldier, only replace "shit-faced" with "bat-shit crazy". And Engie had promised to hog-tie Scout next time Scout started asking stupid questions.

"Well, _fuck_ ," Scout muttered. None of his teammates could help him here. Which meant he only had one option, and it wasn't a pleasant one. In fact, it meant throwing himself into the pits of hell. It meant suffering verbal abuse and general mockery, with a side-helping of trickery and general assholery.

It meant calling his brothers. "Fuuuccckkkk," Scout groaned, flopping back on his bed and throwing one arm over his eyes.  No way in _hell_ could he call his brothers. If he talked to them they'd eat him alive, and then _they'd_ talk to _Ma_ and make a bunch of shit up, and she would call him and give him a "little talk" about how to treat women, and then she'd want to meet Miss Pauling "to see if she's right for my little boy" and then he might as well shoot himself in the fucking _head_.

He returned his arm to his side and stared at the ceiling. Where had he gone wrong? _How_ had he fucked up? He'd done everything girls were supposed to like. He'd got Miss P flowers- sure, Pyro had scorched 'em first and they'd been mostly weeds, but still! They were flowers! Girls were supposed to like that shit! Then he'd tried chocolate, bought some real fancy shit and hid it in a cupboard. But then the lardass found it and by the time Pauling had come to the base next the chocolate was gone. But Scout hadn't known it was gone and he'd ended up looking like a fucking _dumbass_ 'cuz he'd given her an empty box. But at east he'd tried, right? Then he'd thought up the _perfect_ pickup line. It was funny and clever and totally awesome and she'd _still_ turned him down! It was like she was...

Suddenly Scout sat bolt upright, struck by a sudden realization. She was playing hard to get! There was no _way_ an awesome chick like her could resist a guy like him! But she was playing hard to get, trying to make him work for it. So he couldn't just give up- if he kept trying, she's have to give in eventually! Hell , it'd probably break her heart if he gave up.

With a grin, Scout leapt off the bed and grabbed a pencil and a handful of paper. He'd try some poetry next. Chicks dug that shit.

Right?


	8. Revenge is a Dish Best Served Viciously

"Doc!" Engineer cried. "C'mere sawbones, I need some doggone help!" He could hear his teammate just around the corner. Trying to limp to where the doctor was, he winced as he put weight on his injured leg. The damn Scout had got him good with that bat, and then the Demoman had blown away the sentry and dispenser Engie had been guarding all day. Now he was losing blood fast, and Medic didn't seem to hear his cries for help. "Doc!" he called again.

He heard footsteps approaching, and braced himself against the wooden wall as Medic came around the corner. When he appeared, the older man was winded and had an annoyed expression on his face. He also kept glancing back over his shoulder, as if to check on whatever teammate he had left behind. Engineer grinned weakly. "'Bout time, doc. If you could just patch me-"

Medic cut him off sharply. "Really, Herr Engineer. I would expect zese constant summons from zhe Scout, but not from you! Leave me to my vork, Herr Heavy is waiting." With that, the man disappeared back around the corner. Engie sat open-mouthed for a moment, but then called out.

"But Doc! I need healing!"

The doctor's response came echoing back to him. "Zhen build a dispenser, schweinhund!"

 -

Hours later, Engineer slammed his wrench down on a workshop table and tore off his hardhat and goggles. He threw them to the side, and then leaned against his chair, crossed his arms, and scowled. "'Build a dispenser' he says" he muttered. "Try building anything without metal!" His scowl deepened. Because of Medic, he'd died of blood loss and left the intelligence unguarded. Because of Medic, they'd lost the entire battle! For a few moments, Engie simply stayed where he was, lost in his frustration and anger. Then, his face cleared for a moment. He raised an eyebrow and glanced towards the pile of odds and ends and mechanical bits he kept in the corner of his room. A slow, wicked smile crossed his face. Medic had said just that morning that his medigun needed repairs. Maybe it was time to get to work on that.

 -

"Raus, RAUS!" Medic screeched at his companions. If moved fast enough, they could reach the enemy intelligence before the opposing team had a chance to establish a strong defense. Scurrying alongside his rushing team, the doctor spotted Soldier getting ready to blast himself across the water to the enemy base, instead of taking the bridge like a rational man. Muttering something under his breath about the man's stupidity, Medic swung his medigun towards the American. If he could target the man for a few seconds, the fool would be less likely to break his legs again. He wrapped his hand around the medigun's lever and pushed down slowly, feeling the machine vibrate to life. Finally he heard the click that heralded the healing rays of light.

But the light never came.

Instead, the entire team stopped in their tracks and turned to stare at Medic as a long, rumbling noise erupted from the medigun.

A confused expression crossed Heavy's face while Scout broke down in laughter. "Did Doktor eat beans last night?"

"Nein! Zhat vas not me!" Medic exclaimed. He grabbed the medigun handle and pumped it again and again, desperately trying to get it to work. But instead of healing his teammates, the machine only emitted a series of farts of varying pitch and length. At each, Scout's laughter grew increasingly hysterical.

Engie leaned back against the side of the bridge, watching as Medic frantically tried to convince the others that he was not the source of the noises. He laughed quietly as one pump of the handle produced a particularly high-pitched and drawn-out fart.

He always loved it when a project turned out perfectly.

 -

Engineer was still in a good mood when he woke up the next morning. It was a Saturday, which meant no battles and no work. Whistling, he got dressed and wandered out to the kitchen where Pyro was burning pancakes for breakfast. "Mornin, Py," Engie greeted him. He received a muffled grunt in return, and took it as a friendly greeting. He retrieved his coffee mug from the cupboard, filled it, and took a sip. Then he frowned down at the drink. There was an unusually bitter flavor to it this morning. With a shrug, he decided to ignore it. Pyro had probably just burned the coffee when he brewed it. Nodding at the man in the gasmask, Engie took his coffee and returned to his workshop.

A few minutes later, he was sitting at his desk tinkering with some odds and ends. Suddenly, he started to feel... strange. His bowels were heaving and clenching, and he hunched over as he was struck with terrible cramps. He got up, still hunched over, and scuttled to his bathroom. Whatever was happening, he had a feeling that he didn't want it to happen all over his workspace. The bathroom door slammed shut behind him.

A few minutes later, a horrible smell wafted out through the air. Medic, walking by, smelled it and smiled viciously.

When Engineer emerged from the bathroom hours later, stinking and ill, he found a note waiting on his desk.

_Herr Engineer-_

_My condolences on your sudden illness. If it is any consolation, it is my professional opinion that you were likely dosed with bisacodyl. Bisacodyl is a powerful laxative that could hypothetically be ground up and put in someone's coffee mug, where it would dissolve into the coffee and induce diarrhea in a drinker who was crude enough to turn the tool of someone else's trade into a fart gun. Hopefully none of your other dishes were spiked with the same thing._

_Sincerely, Medic_

_PS- Live in fear._

 -

Medic awoke that night with a start. Bolting upright in his bed, he looked around his room frantically. He could have sworn he heard growling! His eyes slid past the door, the coat rack, the dresser, Heavy, the closet, the bathroom door...

Medic's eyes snapped back to Heavy. The enormous Russian was standing completely still in the darkness. His silver eyes were visible as two glints of steel, staring at Medic with a horrifying intensity. "Heavy, mein freund...?" Medic shuddered as a another growl cut off his sentence. There was a movement in the shadows that made the older man flinch, and a crumpled piece of paper came flying through the room to land on his lap. With trembling hands, he unfolded it. It was a note, written in a hand very similar to Medic's own scrawl.

_Dear Heavy-_

_I touched Sascha._

_Sincerely, Medic_

_PS- I let Scout touch her, too._

His whole body started to shake, and he looked back up at Heavy with wide eyes to find that the giant had moved to stand at the foot of Medic's bed. He was growling again, and his nostril's flared like a bull's every time he exhaled. When Medic found his voice, his words came out in a squeak. "Heavy, I did not-" He was cut off by a single, meaty hand wrapping itself around his throat.

 -

The next morning, Engineer found a note pinned to his door. It was slightly mangled, and appeared to have been written hastily. There were drops of dried blood on it.

_Engineer-_

_You win._

_-Medic_


End file.
